Howdy Horn Honkers.
It finally happened.
After decades traveling the roads of this fair country (and others) I finally encountered the single worst motel dwelling I’ve stumbled into at the end of a long day’s drive.
Calling this overnightmare “the worst” is saying a lot since I’ve roamed with rock bands and followed some obscure paths with adventurers, misfit geniuses, sultry sweethearts and Midwestern housewives. When you travel a lot, as many know, there’s always the potential for sweet and sour surprises.
Some surprises are genuinely delightful (recycling bin in my hotel room in Canada; the massive and talkative bullfrog who hopped in when I opened a door in Oklahoma; a night at Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu as the sole guest in a large, historic adobe structure on a clear, star-filled, December night).
Some surprises are less delightful. One time at a Fiddler’s Inn in Nashville l was intrigued by the vibrating beds and decided to lay on one and sing, thinking the vibration would make me sound like Cher. I put a quarter in the slot above the headboard and the TV protested by shooting out sparks and leaping off its stand like an electric lemming. It crashed to the floor and an entire wing of the motel went dark.
I’ve stayed in flash hotels in world famous cities, afforded by my work or friendships, where one night priced out higher than a month’s rent or mortgage in my Atlanta abode. And I’ve rested easy in charming, cinder-block inns with hand-painted signs in the middle of the desert for $32 a night.
Trust me when I tell you I know turndown service with expensive chocolates on a plush pillow and can also play “What’s that stain” with the best of ‘em.
Last week, on my way back to the beach from New Mexico, I was motoring across Texas in oppressive, early summer heat. Through a booking site I found a reasonably priced motel in Tyler where I thought I’d stop for a good night’s rest before making my way to the Gulf Coast the next day. The reviews said it was safe and in a good section of town.
I’d never been to Tyler before. It seemed fine as I drove through, a clean, nice-looking university town of 107,000 people. Tyler is well known as home to the largest rose garden in the United States, a 14-acre public garden with over 38,000 rose bushes.
I noticed, as l pulled in to the address where l was staying, that it was a very large property. It looked more like an apartment complex than a motel. I checked in and was given a “suite” with a full kitchen and living room area.
I was tired and so ready to stop, eat, and watch TV with Peanut Butter Jackson, my Chihuahua-mix sidekick.
As I parked outside my unit I saw trash flung all over the property.
Cigarette butts littered the ground outside the door of my room, as if a group of chainsmokers had a convention and decided “Fuck this room in particular.”
At my age l’m pretty philosophical about life so I thought Ah well, it’s just for one night. Deal with it. At least these 25 people smoked outside and not in the room. Carry on girl.
I opened the door to what looked like a set from “No Country For Old Men.”
I glanced warily around for Javier Badem (someone I’d normally be jazzed to find in my hotel room, but not with this vibe).
I noticed there was a full kitchen, so that was nice. Or maybe not.
Out of curiosity I opened the dishwasher to make sure there were no bodies stuffed in there. I wish I hadn’t. It looked like someone had washed a cow.
There were electrical outlets without covers but hey, there were no toddlers with me so no worries, right?
I saw crayon scribblings and paint stains on the wall and door so there were obviously children in this room at one time. I wondered if they were receiving therapy in adulthood for the experience.
The living room chair appeared to be held together by unidentified stains. I didn't dare sit down but did stare at it in pure amazement for a while.
The bed didn't have full-sized pillows. Rather they seem to have taken two square throw pillows and put white covers on them believing no one with an actual human-sized head would notice. They looked like bloated saltines.
The toilet was taped to the floor on one side. I tried not to use that side.
There was an "old fashioned" phone on the nightstand with no cord/connection at all. It wasn't operable so of course one couldn't call the front desk. It appeared to be a prop to make you think this was a motel room.
The non-phone occupying nightstand was chewed on one corner.
Chewed.
I'm assuming a dog did this in protest of having to stay here.
They had surprised me by charging a $50 deposit when I checked in ("Refundable in two to four business days on your card unless you pay cash.") I wasn't bothered by this until I saw the room. Did they really just hit me with a (temporary) $50 charge for a room that could've served as a petrie dish in the film "Contagion"?
The room was damaged, stained and chewed before I even walked in. There was no way in one night I could possibly make it worse.
To do $50 worth of damage I’d have to paint urine stain art on the ceiling or unleash a herd of diarrhea-prone camels.
I became afraid to walk on the carpet in bare feet for fear that I might inadvertently start another pandemic by later wearing open-toed sandals in public.
I woke up in the middle of the night, my round head sliding off the saltine-square pillow, and heard giggling and barking outside my door.
Somebody’s living it up, I thought sleepily, or else they just came by to laugh at me for paying $79 for this trash heap. Perhaps they’re celebrating being locked out of their room.
The next morning when I took Peanut Butter Jackson out for his morning constitutional there was an empty Slushie cup in front of my door. Apparently my late night visitors had refreshments.
I walked out in time to see a young man exit a room across the parking lot. He was bare chested and wearing red boxer shorts and cowboy boots. He lit a cigarette.
“Need an ashtray?” I asked under my breath, “There’s one in front of my door.”
I didn’t even make coffee before packing the car and getting us out of there. I simply fled, preferring the coffee and bathroom of McDonalds.
What’s the worst motel or hotel experience you’ve ever had? Let’s commiserate.
Motel Hell
I have stayed in some “interesting” places, but the one that will always stand out in my mind was a shelter I turned down. I’d been working as a migrant worker in Greece for several weeks when a farmer offered my (now long-since ex) husband and me a gig with “room and board” supplementing the meager pay. It sounded good because it was steady work and the cheap hostel we were in normally ate up half our daily pay. I drove up with a friend while my husband worked in town that day. It was a STALL. In a BARN. With straw bedding over a dirt floor. I was almost desperate enough to say yes; thankfully, my Greek friend turned it down for me. Within 2 days the same friend found us a much better job (running an olive grove that was the hobby farm of the owner of one of the hardware stores in town.) We lived in a cottage on the property, which not only had a proper floor, and a real bed, but a kitchenette and a wood stove for cooking and heat! Soooo luxurious! Lol
Jeeze! That description ... um ... "exterminated" any memories I may have been harboring of bad hotel experiences! I wish I'd known you were going to be in Tyler. I have cousins there who could at least have made some recommendations!